


Remedy

by AsleepInAisleFour



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 09:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8527369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsleepInAisleFour/pseuds/AsleepInAisleFour
Summary: Lexa Woods does NOT own a cat





	

You’re stood in the pet food aisle of the supermarket watching in silent bewilderment as Lexa peruses the shelves.

“When did you get a cat?” you demand.

“I didn’t.”

“But you’re buying cat food.”

“So I am.”

You examine her for a moment. She seems normal.

“…Do you want to borrow money? You don’t have to do this to yourself. You have friends who care about you.”

“Haha, thanks,” she responds dryly.

She offers no further explanation and continues to study the brands available. You try a more direct approach.

“Why are you buying cat food?”

“There’s a stray cat I feed sometimes.”

She’s vague and avoiding eye contact. You wonder what her definition of ‘sometimes’ is. You raise an eyebrow in question and she relents.

“It seems hungry so I put food out for it sometimes. I don’t have a cat.”  

You’re a sucker for animals and perk up at the prospect of having a temporary cat to hang out with at Lexa’s place. You’re not allowed any pets under the terms of your lease but if you’re honest it’s probably for the best. You’d have your own menagerie by now if you could.

“How about this one?” You point to a yellow box featuring brightly coloured cartoon fish.

“It doesn’t like fish,” she states without hesitation. “It likes chicken and turkey, but will eat pretty much anything in gravy. Except fish.”

You stare at her for a moment. She stares at the cat food. She seems to be regretting the speed at which she rattled off such a detailed answer.

“I see,” you say slowly. “And how long have you been feeding this stray cat?”

“Not sure. A few weeks?” She pauses. “Maybe a few months. I haven’t been keeping count.” She looks away uncomfortably. “It was hungry,” she repeats, a little more defensively this time.

“And when do I get to meet Not Your Cat?” you ask, unable to stop the beginnings of a smile from creeping across your face. Lexa, who carefully sets firm boundaries to prevent anyone from getting too close, has been breached by a stray cat.

“He’s not my cat,” she reiterates.

“ _He’s_ not your cat? A moment ago _it_ wasn’t your cat.” Best. Day. Ever.

“He’s not. It’s not. Whatever.” She’s flustered. “He’s just a stray I feed sometimes. It’s no big deal.” It definitely is a big deal.

“Uh huh,” you say. You’re grinning like a lunatic now. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

You roll your eyes. She’s lying and she knows you know it.

“Arnold. Arnie.” She smiles slightly as she says his name and then her eyes light up. “Because he’ll be back!” she adds in her best Schwarzenegger impression and her smile graduates to a full-fledged grin.

This cat has definitely taken a battering ram through the walls of Fort Lexa.

You think back to the weekend just gone. You’d spent it lounging around in her living room binge watching _The Wire._ She’d been adamant it was the best TV show ever made and had taken it upon herself to convert you. One weekend and two seasons later she has you completely hooked.

You hadn’t given it much thought at the time but her sofa was newly covered in a thick, brown blanket. You’d assumed it was because winter had recently announced its arrival by sending the temperatures plummeting and depositing a couple of inches of snow on the ground, but perhaps this offered an alternate explanation.

“It snowed last weekend,” you probe subtly.

“It did.”

“It’s gotten cold quite quickly.”

 “It has.”

She’s not taking the bait. You drop the subtlety. You need details.

“It must be tough living on the streets at this time of year without a home to go to.”

“Clarke.”

“Is Arnie cold?”

“He has fur.”

“But he doesn’t have a home.”

It’s a low blow but it’s effective. She draws her mouth in to a thin line and grimaces. You continue to goad her.

“He’s outside in all this frost and snow, waiting for you to _sometimes_ feed him. He probably huddles up under your car to get away from it.”

She hesitates and bites her lip. She seems to be regretting allowing you to tag along on this grocery trip.

“He sleeps inside,” she says eventually. She sees the expression on your face and rushes to qualify her statement before you can respond. “Only in the living room. And only overnight. I let him out as soon as I get up in the morning.”

The lady doth protest too much.

“Only overnight when it’s snowing? Or only overnight generally?”

Bingo. She’s blushing.

She picks up a 32-pouch mega pack of gourmet cat food and begins intently reading the ingredient list.

“He’s cold Clarke. He’s not my cat,” she quietly mutters.

“Except at meal times and when he wants somewhere warm to sleep.” Like just about every other cat you’ve ever met.

“It’s just until the weather warms up a bit.” It’s November. Technically it’s not even winter yet.

“So, another four months? Plus however long you’ve been looking after him so far.”

She looks uncomfortable. Arnie must have been around a while.

“Can we talk about something else? How’s Octavia?” Her attempt to evade further questioning is poor. You were talking about Octavia prior to moving on to the current topic of conversation and you’ve no intention of going backwards.

You frown as another thought occurs to you.

“What about worms? And fleas? And his jabs? If he’s living on the streets he’ll probably come in to contact with a lot of other cats. He’ll need boosters. We could-”

“Next September.”

“What?”

She blushes some more.

“He was in a fight. His eye got scratched and it was leaking puss. I took him in and got the boosters done at the same time. He won’t need them again until next September.”

You stare at her. September was two whole months ago.

“And I’ve mixed wormer in to his food and got some flea treatment on him a while back. He’s fine.” She _definitely_ owns this cat.

You can’t believe she’s kept this from you. You tell her about random cats you see in the street that run away before you can get within petting range and all this time she’s had one you could pet until your heart’s content. You feel an odd sense of betrayal.

“You have a secret cat,” you accuse.

“He’s not my cat,” she insists. He probably thinks he is.

“You paid his vet bill. That isn’t cheap.” You remember Octavia evangelising the necessity of pet insurance after receiving a bill that would have set her back almost $500 after her dog got sick and needed to stay overnight for observation. You can buy a car for that kind of money. Not a good car, but a working one nonetheless.

“He’s a stray and he was hurt. I couldn’t just leave him.” She’s avoiding eye contact again.

“Yeah...”

You’re having a hard time coming to terms with the situation. How did she manage to keep this from you for two months? You spend so much time at her place she includes you in decisions on what soft furnishings she buys. Realistically, it has to have been going on for much longer. She would have needed time to be reasonably certain he wasn’t just an enterprising opportunist seeking a second breakfast, and longer still to feel responsible enough for his wellbeing to pay his vet bills. You cast your mind back over the summer looking for clues but come up blank.

“I’m thinking of taking the train home at Christmas,” she says suddenly, interrupting your thoughts. “Friday traffic is a nightmare even without Christmas travellers.”

“What?”

“But I guess the roads will be clear if I leave at, say, 5am. No one gets up that early at the weekend. And it’ll be at least an hour quicker than the train.”

She’s noticed your distraction and has pounced on her opportunity to change the subject. It spurs you in to action.

“What colour is he? Is he longhaired? Short? Do you have photos?” You begin a barrage of questions.

“Clarke.”

“How old is he?”

“Clarke.”

“Is he at your place now? Can I see him?” You have sooo many questions.

“ _Clarke._ ”

“Lexa.”

“Let’s just get the food and go.”

“Go…to see Arnie?” You look at her hopefully. You were planning to go out tonight but you have no qualms about ditching that idea in favour of hanging out with Lexa’s cat. Raven will understand. And be extremely jealous.

“He’s not my cat,” she insists again.

You sigh dramatically and count off your points on your fingers as you make them.

“You’ve named a stray cat who you feed so often you’re both aware of and pandering to his dietary preferences, he’s in the process of moving in with you, and you’re footing his medical expenses. I’d say things are getting pretty serious between the two of you.”

“Clarke.”

“Have you introduced him to your parents?”

“Clarke.”

“Lexa.”

She huffs in defeat.

“Fine. Let’s just get the food and go,” she repeats, grabbing two mega boxes of chicken flavoured cat food in gravy and marching towards the checkout without looking back.

Because it’s completely normal to bulk buy premium cat food when you don’t even own a cat.


End file.
